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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29462046">Appropriate Attire</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/GTRWTW/pseuds/GTRWTW'>GTRWTW</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Publican's Confession Box [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Confessions, F/M, Fluff, Pining, Wet Clothing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 20:15:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,537</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29462046</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/GTRWTW/pseuds/GTRWTW</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>An unfortunate incident forces Strike and Robin into the nearest pub, where Strike tries hard to avert his eyes.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Publican's Confession Box [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2149110</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>92</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Appropriate Attire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>"I can't believe that bloke. What an absolute -"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike trailed off to push the door open, allowing Robin to walk ahead of him into the unfamiliar pub. She shook her head as she went; Strike watched the dark golden strands of her wet hair tumbling haphazardly around her shoulders, and he had a weird urge to smooth the dishevelled ones. He focused on the matter at hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Where do you want to go?" Strike looked around; it was busy for a winter weeknight, no doubt partly because an enormous log fire roared in one corner. "No seats by the fire," he commented.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It's fine. I'll go round there," Robin replied, pointing to the one vacant booth by the back wall, separated from the main area by a wooden divider topped with frosted glass. "Don't want to give everyone a show," she added archly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"All right. I'll get the drinks. What d'you want? Wine?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin shook her head again. "Coffee, please," she murmured through numb lips. She gave him a small smile and sat down at the table she'd pointed out, gingerly lowering herself down onto the leather banquette.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike went to the bar, scolding himself all the while with a stern mantra: </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop looking, stop looking, stop looking.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He felt a little ridiculous, but the situation was ridiculous; a delivery van and an ominously large puddle had combined to send a tidal wave of freezing water over Robin, drenching her from head to toe. But her soaking shoes and dishevelled hair were bothering Strike far less than the fact that Robin had quite carelessly left her trench coat open, with the result that the water had also covered her now sodden white blouse. It had inevitably behaved as though it were no more than tissue paper, and it now hung transparently on Robin's figure like it was painted on, revealing every detail of the white lace bra beneath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike ordered drinks, and returned to Robin with a pint and two short tumblers of amber liquid. Robin raised her eyebrows and looked at him questioningly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"They're bringing the coffee over. It's brandy," he added, pushing one of the glasses across to her. "Thought I'd let you decide whether you want to pour it in or not."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Thanks, that's re- really nice of you," said Robin, shivering.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There were no stools, no seats he could drag over; only the bench seat that spanned the three sides of the booth, on which Robin was already perched, looking up at him fondly. She had unhelpfully sat in the middle of the U shape, so that Strike had no choice but to sit closer to her than he might otherwise have chosen given that she was effectively shirtless. He noted, though, that at least this way he wouldn't need to look directly at her. He smiled back, sat down as far away from her as he could without causing offence, and then schooled his expression into something he hoped was more businesslike.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You'll be warmer in a minute, I can feel the fire from here."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah. It's just - it's still dripping from the coat," she said with a half laugh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike clenched his fist under the table. He knew the best way for her to dry off quickly. He also knew that the best way would make it very difficult for him to stick to his mantra. He looked up at the ceiling before he spoke.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Take it off," he suggested. "The shirt will dry quicker. Then you can wear my coat."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike made to shrug off his overcoat, but Robin protested so forcefully that he acquiesced, smiling, shaking his head at her obstinacy. She took the rest of his advice, though, and began to peel off her own coat. Strike looked away as though she were the sun; he watched the fire across the room, resolutely tracking the flames' dance between the coals, determinedly not looking anywhere but the grate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin laughed and Strike looked up; she'd angled herself towards him and wrapped both hands around her brandy glass, watching him closely. She was still smiling, but she had a disconcertingly shrewd look on her face, as though she knew everything he'd been thinking. Strike grinned back a little guiltily.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Do I look ridiculous?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You look…" Strike couldn't think of anything to say that didn't sound like a lie. He gave in and shook his head. "I can't look at you, Robin," he said, laughing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why n-" Robin glanced down. "Oh." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin had been so engulfed in hiding herself from the strangers in the rest of the pub that she hadn't factored Strike into her thinking. She hadn't bothered to worry about what she looked like to him, or what he might think of her; she found that the idea of revealing skin to him did not cause her any discomfort. She was embarrassed now that the subject had been brought up, but a self-conscious glow spread through her at the realisation that Strike had obviously been looking at her figure, and evidently not finding her wanting. The feeling was pleasant; she wanted to chase it, cling onto it. For so long she had wondered whether Strike had ever found her desirable, and it was something of a relief to find that he did. That her wet shirt was making him uncomfortable excited her in new and delicious ways, and she felt a little guilty at her wayward thoughts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Sorry," she said, grinning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Fucking hell, don't be sorry," replied Strike, before he could stop himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike risked a look at her; his eyes darted from her face to her breasts and back up again. He scolded himself once more; didn't he have any self control? But then, this wasn't just any woman he might have seen in the street. This was Robin. How many times had he pictured the skin beneath her blouses? How many times had his dreams featured her: gorgeous, naked, melting under his kiss? He felt like an addict in front of an open pharmacy. He felt like he was being tempted by the fates. He snatched up his pint glass and took a drink, before switching it out for the brandy. He needed something more potent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Cormoran, relax," said Robin lightly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She sipped her brandy, looking up at him with obvious warmth. Her eye makeup had smudged, giving her a darker look than usual; she looked as she might in the small hours, after a wild night out, knocking at his door just to see if he would answer…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike gave himself a mental slap. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Robin was feeling a heady mixture of wonder and comfort that she felt was lighting her path. She had known for some time that she wouldn't date until she knew exactly what was between her and her partner; if he didn't feel anything for her, she would accept it and move on. But now, today, after an inconsiderate van driver had doused her in dirty rainwater, she finally knew that he felt some flicker of attraction to her, no matter how small. The realisation made her feel both bold and playful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You think I might get in trouble for inappropriate attire at work?" Robin asked, gesturing down at her damp torso. Strike grinned devilishly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm fairly sure your partner is fine with it." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"But how can we work together if he won't look at me?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I think he has no objection to looking at you," murmured Strike slowly. "But he's trying to protect your honour."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike's eyes burned into Robin's as though he were trying to tell her something desperately important without speaking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"My honour?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He wouldn't want to overstep or make you uncomfortable," he said earnestly. But another roguish smile appeared on his face. "On the other hand, he's only human, and you're wearing that shirt…"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin felt a hot stab of desire arrow through her. She sipped her brandy coquettishly, looking up at him from beneath her lashes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, it's not exactly comfortable. Nobody can see us round here; maybe I should just take it off."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strike nearly choked on his brandy; as he coughed, he glanced up and watched Robin's mouth twitch up in a sinful smile. His chest hurt and he rubbed at it, trying to bury his sudden urge to grab her by the waist and kiss her until her knees were weak.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm joking. You look like you're having a coronary," Robin teased.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hey, I'm an old man. Don't mess with my heart like that," said Strike.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Robin looked at him, blushing at the double entendre. "I won't," she murmured.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Are you still cold?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Shame."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why, what would you have done?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They looked into each other's eyes for a strained moment, the air vibrating with a kind of promise. Strike raised his hand, agonisingly slowly, and lifted a lock of hair from where it lay on her shoulder. He placed it gently behind her back, smoothing it out as he went. His fingers trailed lightly up the side of her neck, and Robin's eyes fluttered closed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Americano, love," came a cheery voice; both partners jumped as the barmaid deposited a steaming coffee cup in front of Robin and sauntered away, singing under her breath. </span>
</p>
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